Eulogy for Eleanor
John Barrale
I was twelve; she was eight.
My mother forced me to go— her funeral mass
was a sad storybook on a Sunday morning.
The night before her coffin floated
in a forest of flowers and ribbons.
Under its closed lid, I imagined her head
resting on a satin pillow—
jewel-like, exact
and delicate.
The Red Wheelbarrow Poets 